lunes, 6 de abril de 2015

They say the sea is cold, but the sea containsthe hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urgeon and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killersthere they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out ofthe sea!

And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ageson the depths of the seven seas,and through the salt they reel with drunk delightand in the tropics tremble they with loveand roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.Then the great bull lies up against his bridein the blue deep bed of the sea,as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-bloodthe long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, andcomes to restin the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale'sfathomless body.

And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking thewonder of whalesthe burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back andforth,keep passing, archangels of blissfrom him to her, from her to him, great Cherubimthat wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of theseagreat heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.

And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender youngand dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters ofthe beginning and the end.

And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ringwhen danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless floodand range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threatencircling their huddled monsters of love.And all this happens in the sea, in the saltwhere God is also love, but without words:and Aphrodite is the wife of whalesmost happy, happy she!

and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphinshe is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the seashe is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the malesand dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.

The Ship of Death by David Herbert Lawrence

I

Now it is autumn and the falling fruitand the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dewto bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewellto one's own self, and find an exitfrom the fallen self.

II

Have you built your ship of death, O have you?O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fallthick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.

And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!Ah! can't you smell it?And in the bruised body, the frightened soulfinds itself shrinking, wincing from the coldthat blows upon it through the orifices.

III

And can a man his own quietus makewith a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can makea bruise or break of exit for his life;but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murderever a quietus make?

IV

O let us talk of quiet that we know,that we can know, the deep and lovely quietof a strong heart at peace!

How can we this, our own quietus, make?

V

Build then the ship of death, for you must takethe longest journey, to oblivion.

And die the death, the long and painful deaththat lies between the old self and the new.

Already the dark and endless ocean of the endis washing in through the breaches of our wounds,Already the flood is upon us.

Oh build your ship of death, your little arkand furnish it with food, with little cakes, and winefor the dark flight down oblivion.

VI

Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soulhas her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.

We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dyingand nothing will stay the death-flood rising within usand soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.

We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dyingand our strength leaves us,and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood,cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.

VII

We are dying, we are dying, so all we can dois now to be willing to die, and to build the shipof death to carry the soul on the longest journey.

A little ship, with oars and foodand little dishes, and all accoutrementsfitting and ready for the departing soul.

Now launch the small ship, now as the body diesand life departs, launch out, the fragile soulin the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faithwith its store of food and little cooking pansand change of clothes,upon the flood's black wasteupon the waters of the endupon the sea of death, where still we saildarkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.

There is no port, there is nowhere to goonly the deepening blackness darkening stillblacker upon the soundless, ungurgling flooddarkness at one with darkness, up and downand sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction any moreand the little ship is there; yet she is gone.She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.She is gone! gone! and yetsomewhere she is there.Nowhere!

VIII

And everything is gone, the body is gonecompletely under, gone, entirely gone.The upper darkness is heavy as the lower,between them the little shipis gone

It is the end, it is oblivion.

IX

And yet out of eternity a threadseparates itself on the blackness,a horizontal threadthat fumes a little with pallor upon the dark.

Is it illusion? or does the pallor fumeA little higher?Ah wait, wait, for there's the dawnthe cruel dawn of coming back to lifeout of oblivion

The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shellemerges strange and lovely.And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsingon the pink flood,and the frail soul steps out, into the house againfilling the heart with peace.

If I could have put you in my heart,If but I could have wrapped you in myself,How glad I should have been!And now the chartOf memory unrolls again to meThe course of our journey here, before we had to part.

And oh, that you had never, never beenSome of your selves, my love, that someOf your several faces I had never seen!And still they come before me, and they go,And I cry aloud in the moments that intervene.

And oh, my love, as I rock for you to-night,And have not any longer any hopeTo heal the suffering, or make requiteFor all your life of asking and despair,I own that some of me is dead to-night.

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